


if i go into it with you

by vivat



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Aftermath, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Gore, Other, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-15 12:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivat/pseuds/vivat
Summary: Drifter makes mistakes. Mistakes that cost him more than he would like. But broken things can always be pieced back together again, and in the end, two hands are always better than one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Preliminary warning: the first portion of this fic deals heavily with themes of dubious consent, violence, and assault on the part of dirks. If you'd like to skip past these concepts, they're introduced after the line "The dirk doesn't kill him." and are present until the end of the chapter. There will be a summary of plot relevant information for the entire chapter at the end notes.
> 
> The last chapters will be pretty much entirely driftguard and them dealing with the aftermath in a way that ends happily for them both. (Not the dirks though. Rip.) So while this first chapter carries most of the setup, don't worry, it's not the tone of the entire fic and it's not a huge deal if you skip it.
> 
> Also! Special thanks to [Shhnikeys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Schnikeys/pseuds/Shhnikeys) | [shhnikeys](https://shhnikeys.tumblr.com/) for all the wonderful insight and critique. This entire endeavor would've been much shorter and less interesting without your help.

Drifter hisses between clenched teeth under his mask. He should know better by now than to rush around a corner without scoping the area out first, and this isn’t the first time he’s backed himself into said corner as a result, but this instance is even more embarrassing. No ammo in his pistol, one medkit to his name, and a hud that’s _already_ nagging at him to heal?

He let himself get cornered by _dirks._

That’s the worst part, he thinks. The fact that the hive-minded brutes could be what finally does him in stings more than anything. Not that they’re difficult enemies; their attacks are so easy to read he could dodge them in his sleep, but even he knows that having more than three on one side of you with an unscalable wall on the other is bad news. Five of them stare him down now, white eyes nearly glowing in the washed out mountain light, claws already stained. The brick at his back feels like it’s taunting him with every dig into his spine. Fuck that. Fuck this.

Drifter heals, and draws his sword.

He wastes no time, slashing the dirk closest to him once, twice -- it raises its arm, blocking what would have been a death-blow to its throat, but it makes no difference. Drifter’s pistol pings as each hit transfers the kinetic energy into its charge, and he ducks under another dirk’s lunge as he pulls it from the holster at his waist. Twirling, he stuns the next dirk reaching for him with another maneuver of his sword before turning again and finishing off the one he’d first struck. It falls to the ground with a wet thud.

Four more to go.

The remaining dirks pay no mind to their fallen companion. Drifter is forced to dodge back as one lunges for him, and nearly stumbles in his attempt to dodge the oncoming attack from a second. He manages to stay on his feet, but just barely, and unsurprised as he is to have claws slash across his shoulder, the fact that the pain was anticipated barely helps.

His cloak, however, does its job. The dirk grunts as its claws tangle in the thick fabric from the reach of its swing, and Drifter uses the momentary pause to forcefully kick it away. The sting in his arm is distracting enough that he’s glad he didn’t get hit in his sword arm. Not yet, anyway.

A chitter from behind him is the only warning he gets before one of the dirks there comes after him, and the dance starts all over again. Dodge, twirl, hit - he stuns one of them with the last remaining charge of his pistol and uses the opportunity to drive his sword into its stomach. The thing howls as he pulls it out, falling to the ground, and the other dirks back away. Drifter cuts off its cries with a plunge of his sword into its skull, and snarls at the three dirks left.

They’re unimpressed.

Maybe showing his teeth would’ve been more intimidating if he hadn’t been wearing a mask over his mouth, but he has little time to reflect on it. He can feel his energy waning, the fight having already gone on long enough, but the remaining dirks are oddly hesitant to initiate the next round. Or is it to be expected, when they just watched him slice open the neck of one of their group and disembowel another? Drifter doesn’t really care. He darts forward.

One of the dirks screams as he drifts past -- proof of the successful hit -- but the victory is short-lived as he has to jump away from another dirk’s reach before he can deliver a second blow. He nearly careens into the wall, then, the confined space he’s been backed into manifesting its ugly constraints against him once again --

and in avoiding it, he walks right into the other dirk.

It _bites_ him before he can move, tearing through the sleeve of his shirt and skin and muscle and Drifter _screams._ He nearly drops his sword, except he knows that dropping your sword is the one thing you never, ever do, and pure instinct is what has him smashing the butt of his pistol into the dirk’s nose instead of shooting its fucking face off. The blow only makes it bite harder, instinct fueling it in turn, and it’s only when there’s the _crack_ of a skull caving in as Drifter strikes it harder and harder that it finally goes limp. He pushes it off of him before he can be attacked again. There are no fancy techniques involved in the way he finishes off the last dirk, shakily emptying the full charge of his pistol into its body. Drifter leans against the wall heavily. The gun falls out of his trembling grip when he tries to shove it back into its holster, and he doesn’t bother leaning over to pick it up.

His left arm is fire. His right arm is hell. He can feel the blood soaking his shirt, slick down his arm until it pools where his hand grips onto the hilt of his sword. Drifter is absolutely sure that if he were to let go of it now, he wouldn’t be able to pick it back up again. He can barely feel his fingers. 

Afraid as he is to look, he knows he has to. It doesn’t make it any easier to bear the queasiness when he finally nerves himself up and does it. Dirk mouths seem to be lined with razors more than actual teeth, and looking at the mess of Drifter’s bicep, one would think no different; strips of bruised flesh hang off his arm like ribbons, globs of blood oozing slowly, and gleams of white peeking through the mess of pink and blue only confirms what he hoped wasn’t true. He fucked up bad on this one. At the very least, no huge chunks are gone from his arm. As long as he can get this wrapped up and bound soon, a careful administration of medkits and nanopacks should have him just fine in a couple days, if a little numb. Although he’s not too excited about that, either. He just needs to get out of here.

Something rustles.

Drifter freezes at the sound. There shouldn’t be anything else around; there are no wolves in this part of the mountain, and the birds rarely stoop to levels below their high mountain perches. Unless...

The first dirk he shot. The one he gutted. The one that nearly broke his arm. The one that just finished bleeding out from the holes in its chest.

Where’s the fifth one?

Drifter doesn’t even have time to try to stand before he’s slammed into the wall. The blow would have driven the air out of his lungs even if the pain hadn’t, but the combination gives the added bonus of making him so dizzy he only keeps from blacking out through practice. When he’s finally able to focus his senses on something than other trying to remember how to breathe, the dirk is leaning its full weight against his chest, pinning him. All Drifter can see is its teeth.

He wants to close his eyes. The blood loss is getting to him, dragging him by his feet into the sort of exhaustion he knows too well, but he’s come _too far_ to take his death with more resignation than necessary. He can’t fight (he dropped his sword, he dropped his gun, he has nothing but claws attached to arms that will barely listen to him and legs hardly strong enough to hold him up as it is) but at the very least, he can stare death in the eyes as it takes him.

The dirk doesn’t kill him.

Or at least, if it’s planning on it, it’s taking its time; it sniffs the air between them heavily, breath fogging in the cold. It leans in, nosing Drifter’s chest, his bloodier arm. He holds his own breath, hoping maybe that’ll trick it into thinking he’s dead somehow. It doesn’t seem to be fooled. 

It licks his arm.

Drifter chokes on the flare of pain. He’d scream, if he weren’t afraid of startling the dirk into attacking him, but he barely manages to restrain his cry into just that as it is. The dirk perks back up at the noise, eyes trained on Drifter’s face. It watches him for several moments. Waiting, maybe, for him to do something interesting, but when all he does is catch his breath, it goes right back to what it started.

Pinned to the wall as he is, all Drifter can do is whimper and try not to cry out as the dirk laps at his wound with a tongue not very concerned about being gentle. It doesn’t pay much mind to him aside from when he moves, a low growl vibrating in its chest every time he squirms a little too much.

It’s not until minutes later, when the pain has begun to numb and the dirk looks back at his face again, that Drifter realizes what’s happening. The burning of his ruined arm has spread, into his chest and his face and his stomach, a slow crawl of heat that wasn’t noticeable until the source of it suddenly stopped. The dirk licks its lips.

Oh, fuck.

Releasing him from its hold, the dirk watches as Drifter collapses, his legs unable to support his weight anymore. Drifter, on the other hand, is too busy cursing himself and his stupidity to focus much on anything but. The rocks digging into his side as he falls, the clamor as his helmeted head hits the ground; all of it goes unnoticed as he realized he had to go and let himself get caught by a dirk during mating season.

Which is probably why they’d been so slow, he thinks belatedly. Their races originated in the same labs, so their biologies are more similar than they’re different, and with their pheromones clouding their senses, they’d mistaken him for one of their own. They hadn’t wanted to kill him. They’d wanted to court him.

All of this runs through his head as the dirk looms over him. It gives his arm one last, infected lick, making him shudder. The pheromones must work faster than he thought, because as embarrassing as it is, he can’t help the moan that spills from his lips at the treatment, pooling over the stone like his blood. Or maybe it’s the other dirks’ blood. He can’t tell.

The reaction seems to be what the dirk is looking for, however. It rolls him over onto his stomach, and all Drifter can do is try to maneuver his face so he doesn’t drown in the blood there. He’s not entirely successful - it gets all over his face even with his helmet on, still warm. 

He doesn’t have much time to think about it, because then the dirk is licking somewhere else.

Drifter chokes on a mix of a gasp and a moan. He can’t see it, but the dirk has nosed its way under his skirt, sniffing and licking in short bursts that, more than anything, leave Drifter _wanting._ Which is the worst part, he thinks; that he was desperate to get this over with a minute ago, but now he’d give almost anything for the dirk to keep going. It grabs at him, claws digging pinpricks into his thighs and waist, but whatever effect the pheromones are having on him, it seems to be amplifying the pain into something _else,_ too. 

“ _God,_ ” Drifter garbles, and he comes hard to the dirk nosing his crotch, lapping at the mess he makes.

He nearly passes out, then. Even if he can’t really feel the pain anymore, he’s still injured, and he’s still lost blood, and he thinks he actually _does_ black out for a moment. The next thing he knows is a tearing sound as his leggings are ripped, scoring his skin in the process. The electric sting of it jerks him awake, and he groans as the dirk’s weight settles over him again.

He thought he’d be spent, but his body betrays him as the dirk slides against him. Each movement pools more warmth in his stomach, building dangerously, nearing its peak when the dirk bites his shoulder only to ebb again when it begins to slow its pace. It steps away from him completely, then, and he sobs in frustration.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The dirk flips him over again, onto his back, the blood on Drifter’s face dry enough by this time that it’s at least in no danger of dripping into his eyes. He can’t move, still. He can’t think. His entire body is made of sensations, overstimulated, almost too much. He can’t. He can’t--

His fingers brush something cold.

He can’t think. So he doesn’t. He grabs the pistol and uses the last miraculous bullet to blow the dirk’s fucking brains out.

It dies immediately, slumping backwards onto the stone. Drifter’s arm falls to the ground with it. He’s done. He wants to rest. He wants to just lay there, at least for a moment, but his entire body is _screaming_ at him, and--

He makes himself come again, curled on his side and sobbing in relief as at last his nerves quiet into something manageable. It’s then that he takes a moment to gather himself - as much as he can, in any case.

It takes him far too long to get to his feet. His entire body is dangerously numb. He has no choice but to leave his sword and pistol behind; bending over to reach the sword is beyond him, and his pistol is useless without his blade to charge it. He moves on while he’s still able.

Drifter’s not sure how far he makes it. And he’s not sure where he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drifter is cornered by five Dirks in the north, dispatching four after being mildly wounded in one arm and much more severely in the other. Upon being trapped by the last Dirk and being infected with its pheromones, he realizes that they were slow to attack due to their mating season, and were attempting to court him. After a few minutes of the Dirk's attentions, Drifter is able to reach his gun and manages to finish it off, before leaving the area without weapons and collapsing from his injuries.


	2. Chapter 2

When Drifter wakes again, his entire body is burning.

The whine escapes him before he even opens his eyes. Already he just wants to go back to sleep, but the pain isn’t numb anymore, and he can feel every muscle in his body revolting against him under the blankets.

...Blankets.

It’s only as he’s sitting up that he realizes both of his arms are bandaged. Very well, he might add - but he’s woken up in Guardian’s house, and it’s not surprising that they would be good at things like this.

Ignoring his body’s protests, Drifter maneuvers his legs over the side of the bed. His legs are shaky, sore and weak and far too unwilling to bear his weight, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to get out of the house and leave town before this place’s owner returns.

He’s only just reached the table when the door slides open.

“Drifter,” says Guardian, surprised, and he curses under his breath as they approach. “What are you doing?”

There are a million things he could say to that, but he settles for one. “Leaving.”

“Sorry,” Guardian says, “but it seemed to me like you were just about to get back into bed and rest.”

Drifter grits his teeth. “I don’t have time for this.” He regrets raising his arm to point to the door behind Guardian when his shoulder screams in protest, but he doesn’t lower it for a moment longer anyway. “I need to leave. Now.”

Guardian doesn’t speak. Then, “I understand if you’re restless,” they begin, and Drifter’s stomach sinks, “or uneager to accept my help. But I can’t in good conscience let you leave when you could barely swing a sword.” 

He would drift past them, if he could. Nevermind swinging a sword, though; he can barely walk more than a couple feet without needing to stop to lean on something. 

(Drifter can’t help but wonder: what would they do if he continued to refuse? Would they force him to stay? Restrain him, or tie him up? Or would they shove him back onto the bed, pinning him, warm and breathing and so close--)

It’s not even that Drifter really wants to leave. He just doesn’t want to know what will happen if he stays.

“Do you need help?” Guardian asks, taking Drifter’s lack of further protests as a sign of acceptance. 

“No,” Drifter snaps, turning away. He scrubs at his face as he limps back to the bed; blood is still crusted on the skin that wasn’t covered by his mask, and it doesn’t exactly feel pleasant as it crumbles off. He must look like shit.

“At least let me help with this,” Guardian says. They pull a nanopack out of their bag as Drifter lowers himself back onto the bed. He wants to protest, knowing that Guardian would have to touch him then (and that’s dangerous, with the way he wonders _would that really be so bad),_ but - he’s not sure he can administer it to himself without messing up dangerously, right now.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he faces away from them, turning onto his side as much as he can without lying directly on his arm, giving them access to his back. He fists his claws into his cloak as Guardian pulls up a chair.

Their steadying touch is light, and warm, but even despite that Drifter has to suppress a shiver. God. He can almost feel them trailing their hands down, across his spine. Over his hips. What it would be like for them to slip under his skirt, stroking him. How gentle they would be, but still insistent, coaxing him to climax over and over and--

The needle pierces his skin and Drifter bites on a keen, only half-successful in muffling the sound as he’s jerked from the fantasy by the sensation of a needle plunging towards his spine. It’s far too long before the discomfort of the spent nanopack being pulled out has passed, and Drifter curls in on himself, breathing hard. Guardian makes a noise as Drifter hears them sit back.

“Sorry. I know it’s uncomfortable. But that should help more than a few bandages could.” The words are distant to Drifter’s ears, half drowned out by his own heartbeat. He struggles to focus even as he’s not sure how well he succeeds. “In any case, I’ll leave you to rest now.” Their chair scrapes against the floor as they make to stand, and Drifter panics, despite himself. He jerks up -- too fast, making the room spin -- and turns, catching Guardian’s wrist.

“Wait,” he says, and his embarrassment at the way he’s blatantly pleading serves only as the background static to the hunger eclipsing everything else. “Don’t.” He looks everywhere but Guardian’s face. “Please.”

Guardian sits.

Drifter doesn’t let go of their wrist.

“...Are you alright?” Guardian asks. They place their other hand over Drifter’s almost carefully.

They’re warm. Drifter’s warm. Everything is very, dangerously warm, and he knows that this has to be the pheromones, still burning their way through him, but the knowledge does nothing except sit there, taunting him. Knowing does nothing to help the restlessness fuzzing his thoughts. All he can do is stare at the one place they touch.

“Drifter,” Guardian prompts, not unkindly. “What do you need?”

The worst part is just how immediate an answer Drifter is willing to give.

Guardian was leaning forward before, bridging most of the space between them, but they lean back as Drifter hauls himself forward until he’s straddling their lap. Their eyes widen under their helmet. “I--”

“This,” Drifter says, the simple word cutting Guardian short.There are too many clothes between them, and it takes every effort not to grind his hips against theirs even as he presses himself against them in something like demonstration. The haze of his thoughts only makes it harder to find the right words, but he does eventually, testing them on his tongue for several long moments before saying each one, slowly. “I need you.”

“You--” Guardian starts, only to stop and fall silent. They say nothing for a time that edges on agonizing, and Drifter watches their eyes flicker between him and everything else as he does his best to hold himself still. His skin itches, like it’s being pulled over something hot and growing, leaving him to burst. And then, finally, “Is this - what you _want?_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Drifter says, and all it takes is Guardian’s nod of consent for the last of Drifter’s restraint to fall away.

He can’t feel the pain again, but his hands shake too much to undo the clasps of Guardian’s cloak regardless. They help him. Fingers wrapping around his and guiding him to the buckles, it falls to the floor behind them, and Drifter nearly tears his mask in his haste to get it off. Under different circumstances, in a scenario where Drifter was thinking enough for it to occur to him, he would have felt something like vulnerability with his face unmasked, unobscured around someone else for the first time since longer than he can remember. As it is, he barely notices.

Even despite the helmet, he moves to kiss them with such force that they’re only saved from the chair toppling over by Guardian shifting their weight forward at the last second. It does interesting things to the places where their bodies meet, and Drifter leans into the sensations with an eagerness that seems to take the drifter under him off guard. Drifter’s hands roam, unable to stay still, across Guardian’s chest, their shoulders; he barely even breathes, so caught up is he in every little touch.

Guardian’s hands are still where they rest on Drifter’s waist. Unsure, maybe, or hesitant, for all that they’re definitely kissing Drifter _back_ , and Drifter decides that this is something that needs to be fixed. 

“Touch me,” he breathes into the crook of Guardian’s neck. His voice is thin, but firm, and when he next mouths the words it’s into Guardian’s pulse. He feels their breath hitch more than he hears it. “I want you to touch me.” As if to punctuate his request, he slips his own hand into the negligible space between both their hips, palming Guardian through their pants, barely. A suggestion. He definitely hears a noise from them this time. “Can you do that?”

Guardian doesn’t answer. Not with words. Their hands speak for them, one roaming up Drifter’s back, under his cloak, the other traveling in stops and starts up the length of his thigh to settle underneath his skirt. Drifter’s leggings are still ripped there, and the feeling of Guardian’s gloves on his bare skin alone is enough to make him lurch forward, nearly gasping into Guardian’s shoulder. It’s almost embarrassing, how sensitive he is. They haven’t even really done anything yet. But then he grinds his palm more firmly where it still rests between Guardian’s legs, and the answering deep intake of breath drowns out every other thought.

“Hold on?” Guardian says, the statement lilted into something more like a request. Drifter pauses, only to cling more tightly to Guardian as they begin to rise. He can’t cling very well; his grip is still weak, but even so, their hold on him is firm enough that it at least feels very much like it doesn’t matter. The bed is right next to them regardless, and Drifter is less surprised to find himself being lowered onto it. A hand on his chest keeps him from rising when he attempts to do so.

“You’re injured,” Guardian says softly, cutting him off before he can speak. “You shouldn’t be moving.” 

The emotion that strikes Drifter then is a cut between frustration and desperation -- they can’t stop here. Drifter _can’t_ ; every inch of his skin is singing with the need to be touched, a heat burning him up from the inside with only one possible outlet. But the drifter kneeling between his legs doesn’t move for several long moments.

Guardian, Drifter suddenly realizes, just looks lost, flustered and overwhelmed, and Drifter finds he can’t wait long enough for them to figure out what they want to do. Still - he can work with this; it might not be exactly what he’d hoped for, but as long as they’re _here_ , he doesn’t need them to do anything else.

“Okay,” Drifter says, drawing Guardian’s gaze from where they’d been looking over his body as if for an answer, “okay, fine, just-- you don’t have to do anything. Just stay with me.”

Guardian gives a small, almost grateful nod at the compromise, and the relief Drifter feels when they don’t move away is, while not the kind he needs, more substantial than he ever would’ve thought to expect. It makes him consider what it would be like to have to deal with this alone. The thought leaves a pit of dread in his stomach he doesn’t know what to do with, so he smothers it, and then it becomes all too easy to ignore as he palms himself on Guardian’s bed.

He barely needs to touch himself for his body to respond. Every jolt of pleasure screams _yes, yes,_ the words getting mixed up somewhere in his throat and leaving him as stuttered gasps. It would be easy for him to close his eyes, to lose himself in the feeling of it, but even more enticing than that is Guardian’s form between his legs, still clothed and kneeling and watching him intently. It would be perfect, if the effort of keeping them in view wasn’t putting a quickly growing strain on his neck. Growling in frustration, he doesn’t miss the way Guardian balks a little as he takes back his hands, sticky from touching himself, before he pauses to pull his cloak over his head, shifting just enough to bunch it under his neck in a makeshift pillow. 

He pauses, again, at the feeling of warmth touching on the inside of his knees, and is surprised to find Guardian’s hands there. They’re effectively bracing his legs open, and the realization makes him shiver, a tremor he’s unable to suppress that runs through his entire body and has him testing their hold without him meaning to. They hold firm regardless. Drifter reaches for himself again, desperation renewed in a way he almost can’t take.

He should’ve expected how he comes, then, with how close he was -- how close he’s been -- but it sneaks up on him nonetheless, and he spasms on his fingers, breath coming rough and heavy and leaving him dizzy. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough, over too soon and quickly replaced by yet another wave of _want_. The frustration of it nearly drives him to tears. He chokes on a sob as it is, unsatisfied and unable to do anything but catch his breath before moving to start again. 

“Wait,” Guardian says. Drifter does, unable to guess why he’s been stopped. But Guardian begins to pull off their gloves, meeting Drifter’s gaze as they do so, and anticipation wires abruptly up his spine. “Let me,” they murmur. They don’t have to ask him twice.

Settling over him, they meet him in as deep a kiss they can with their helmet still on. Drifter can’t see much like this (their face and helmet in the way, curved edges of the warm metal kissing Drifter’s skin), but he’s not going to complain when he can still _feel_ , the hand that had previously kept a leg in place trailing up, touching on his knee, over his thigh, until finally all there is is skin on skin and Drifter can’t quite bite on a whine.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I--” only to cut off on a choke as Guardian slips a finger inside him.

It takes everything Drifter has not to come again right there. All of his stamina has been replaced by burning, and need, but Guardian at least gives him a moment to adjust. Drifter fists his claws into the fabric of their tunic as their hand begins to move, unable to leave his own empty for long. He falls into rhythm with them almost too quickly.

“More,” he rasps. Guardian is quick to oblige.

He has to muffle his cries with a hand, hips hitching as Guardian’s fingers curl inside him. They’re watching him, flushed face and intent expression only visible because of how _close_ they are, but still reading every movement and sound Drifter makes like he’s an open book. He arches his back, and they curl their fingers to match; he whines and gasps and they slow their pace to a gentle tease, drawing each sensation out. It’s not long before his breath starts to come fast and shallow as the pleasure builds, unrelenting, pooling in his stomach, his chest, his throat--

His next gasp rattles, in time with his climax. And so does his next, catching in his throat uncomfortably, and Drifter tugs at Guardian’s hand as a cough pushes itself from his lungs, robbing him of any chance to breathe. They understand immediately, at least, helping him upright until they’re supporting him completely, Drifter leaning on them heavily and arms wrapped around their shoulders. Distantly, he can feel Guardian’s hands on his back as he hacks through the sudden coughing fit, rubbing broad, soothing circles under his shirt. 

It takes an eternity for the cough to die down, but eventually the tightness in his lungs begins to ease, letting him breathe so that the room settles down from its spin. It’s only now that he notices the soft, reassuring noises Guardian is making, and maybe has been the entire time. He makes a noise in return; he’s fine. It’s fine.

Except -- as his illness foregoes its ill-timed reminder of its existence, other sensations shove their way back to the forefront of his awareness. Now that he knows what it’s like, the lack of stimulation leaves him almost starving for more; he can’t see Guardian when they’re flush together like this, not really, but Drifter can press his face into the crook of their neck, can breathe them in, pressing himself even closer until he’s grinding against them with everything he has. Which isn’t much. His body has been pushed to several different limits in such a short span of time, but he finds he doesn’t really care.

“Drifter.” Guardian pulls back gently, and he makes another noise, this time in protest. He doesn’t want to stop. “I won’t,” they say. (Drifter hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud.) “Let me reach?”

Oh. He moves with Guardian much more willingly at that, letting them ease him away a little until there’s some space between them, maneuvering his legs somewhat so that they can reach without having to break away entirely. Because this is nice, being so close; arms still draped over them, face buried in their shoulder. Guardian is careful about the way they coax their fingers back inside him, and Drifter hisses, teeth clicking against the shocks of pleasure climbing his spine.

He can hear their heartbeat. This close to their chest, it’s almost _all_ he can hear even over the sound of his labored panting, small noises pulling themselves from his throat unbidden. Limbs twitching with every move they make, he feels all too pliant in their hands.

“Nn- fuck,” he breathes, the word nothing more than a strained whisper in his throat. “ _Fuck._ ” His hands fist at Guardian’s back, claws digging a little into the fabric there. He coughs again, once, the sound muffled by Guardian’s shoulder, but the disruption is solitary and small. They make a noise -- something like a question.

“Don’t--” Drifter starts, voice and hands and body shaking from the effort of holding himself together as their pace slows just slightly, “don’t stop.”

Guardian’s other hand where it still rests on his back is steady, reassuring in its weight. Their fingers press just slightly into his overheated skin. The gesture is small -- barely noticeable if not for how _aware_ Drifter is of every place where they touch -- and he wonders what it means. He wants to know what it means. He wants--

He wants Guardian’s body pressed against his, empty space eaten by their skin until there’s nothing left between them; he wants to be full of them, to take and take everything they'll give until he can't take any more; he wants to drink them dry, he wants every drop of blood replaced with the heady feeling filling his veins like syrup-

He wants--

There’s no coughing fit or overwhelming frustration to distract him from his climax, this time. There’s only every nerve lighting itself up from the inside, clenched teeth and curled fingers, and Drifter keens through the tremors, low and long into Guardian's shoulder until the noise of his body quiets enough for him to do something about the way his hips are rocking of their own accord. Until, after several long moments, his body quiets almost completely.

He doesn’t protest this time when Guardian takes their hand back. He shivers when their fingers leave him (leave him empty), but it’s bearable, and it gives him an excuse to nestle closer if nothing else. For a minute, all he does is breathe.

He shifts his head just slightly where it rests on Guardian’s shoulder when he feels them move. For a moment, when they remove their hand from his back and raises them up, he’s afraid they’re going to place those hands on his shoulders, push him away -- but instead, they grip the sides of their helmet and wrestle it off. Drifter doesn’t see where they discard it.

He pulls them close. He can do that, with the way his arms are slung over their shoulders, until they’re nuzzled cheek to cheek. He couldn’t care less about how both of their faces are traced with sweat, not when he can feel Guardian’s fingers touching lightly on his hair, holding him in return. The possessiveness that rises in him then doesn’t even take him off guard. It just feels right.

He presses his lips into their skin, just under their ear. They inhale like they weren't expecting it, and it makes Drifter smile, treasuring the way they lean into the affection. He doesn't quite lift his lips as he trails a path across their cheek, and he's still smiling when Guardian turns their head just enough to meet him in the kiss.

The taste of them on his tongue is intoxicating, making his entire body thrum. He pulls back a hand and traces his claws over the sensitive skin of their neck, drinking their shaky moan eagerly, and he barely has to maneuver himself for his hand to roam down, brushing over their chest, their stomach, their waist. There's an urge to leverage himself onto them, but the sound they make when he slips his hand into their pants has him thinking of other things.

He can feel them more than he could the first time. He feels their warmth, hot and pulsing through the thin layer of clothing serving as the only barrier between his hand and their skin, and it sends an answering wave of heat into his stomach that only grows when Guardian gasps. Drifter strokes them through their clothes, relishing every tiny response it earns him; the sounds that catch in their throat and come out broken, spilling from their lips onto his; the hand in his hair clenching before relaxing and back again, over and over in erratic cycles as if they’re reminding themself to be gentle, to not tug and pull; their other hand clutches at his waist under his skirt, the fabric bunched up over his hips from the gesture, but that’s hardly the first thing on his mind when their tongue and their heat and the callouses on their palms are pulling his body in every direction. 

But -

He can’t see them. He’s weak, still trembling, still being held and held up through them, and the narrowed scope of their face as a result isn’t enough anymore. Was never really enough. It’s more than _want_ ; the need goes deeper than he could ever be touched, deeper than taste.

Drifter leans back a little. His other arm where it’s still crooked around Guardian’s neck tugs them down with him, and they let his weight carry them forward until they’re in much the same position they were before. This time, they’re much, much closer. Drifter’s hand is trapped between them, and he can watch them now as they shudder against the feeling of him pulling his hand back.

He’s aching. Empty. There’s a very big part of him that just wants to let Guardian keep going when they press their fingers against him again, but he ignores it as best he can as he places a hand over theirs, stopping them before they can get far. 

“Can-- I want you.” Drifter barely notices his voice crack, enraptured as he is with the way the flush of their face deepens. In the brief silence between them, he can see their shoulders strain against their labored breath, heavy puffs of air that come from them both. “All of you.”

It takes a moment for Guardian to respond. When they do, it’s to lean back just enough to fumble with their loosened belt. Drifter watches, transfixed, and Guardian looks back to him after. They hesitate, waiting. Wanting. Drifter tugs them toward him with his leg, gently, licking his dry lips.

They ease their way inside him slowly. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, over the sound of their own low moan. He pulls them down for another kiss, this one sloppy and fevered and punctuated with teeth Drifter doesn’t have the mind to keep in check. But Guardian doesn’t seem to mind either; they match him eagerly, breath hot against Drifter’s face in the bare moments they pull away to breathe. The sense of urgency that’s been pulsing just under Drifter’s skin grows almost palpable, until he wonders if Guardian can’t feel it now too. 

Every sensation pulls at him. Sparks of pure feeling where their bodies meet, blinding him to anything but the sight of Guardian’s face above his, to everything but the taste of them on his tongue, the smell of ozone and ink they always carry with them -- this is his entire world: their hands cupping his face, keeping him grounded through every spike of pleasure even as the pace they’d set grows less and less controlled. Their furrowed brows set creases into their skin. He can feel how their fingers tremble just slightly. He places his hand over them.

When he says “I’m here,” his voice is barely audible, stretched thin and thready and strained, so he says it again. “I’m here. I’m here, I’m with you, whatever you want.” The words spill from his mouth like water through a broken sieve, all rushed and on top of each other. If he had any inclination to try to stop, the look on Guardian’s face would’ve quashed it.

“You’re good. You’re so good,” he rambles, the praise leaving him all at once, “you’re perfect. You’re perfect, y-- fuck--” A sudden jolt of pleasure skewers him end to end, robbing him of speech, leaving him panting and breathless for several lengthy moments as he fights to keep the remnants of his composure together long enough to continue. “Y-you, I- fuck, I can’t--”

It’s the easiest thing in the world to wrap his fingers around theirs, clasping them where they rest against his face, clutching. Claiming. “You’re-- _everything,_ ” he gasps. There is no room in him to lie. There’s no room enough between them for anything like restraint. It’s all he can do to not fall apart.

And--

He cries out hoarsely as his climax breaks over him like a wave -- finally, too soon -- and is helpless to do anything but ride through it as he comes, shaking from the intensity of it, every piece of him stretched taut. Somewhere above him, Guardian makes a cry that mirrors his own, and they come down from it together, panting and close and warm.

Drifter’s world opens up around him again, and he’s stunned by how beautiful it is.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s warmth, in the dark.

Something hazy, pressing in on him from all sides. He floats there for a while, letting the faint, vague pressure cradle him as he drifts in and out. It’s nice.

Why does it feel nice?

It could probably be described as a joke, that the lack of discomfort is what pulls him from sleep instead of the opposite, but as his senses return to him, the ache in his limbs becomes more and more apparent regardless.

The fact that this is already familiar isn’t funny, though.

Drifter opens his eyes. The ceiling above him is familiar, too, as is the texture of the blankets underneath him, and it takes him far too long for him to gather the nerve to turn his head. The fact that he already knows what he’ll find there does nothing to keep him from being unable to breathe for several long seconds.

Guardian, in the bed next to him. They’re turned away from him, but he can just see the curve of their face, the slow rise and fall of their chest as they breathe. They’re asleep. Thank god, they’re asleep. 

The events of the last day run through his mind clear as ever as he covers his face with a hand.

God. In. Hell.

He needs to get out of here.

Guardian must be as exhausted as Drifter feels, because they don’t stir as he carefully detracts his legs from the pile of limbs. He would swear navigating through a pack of napping crystal wolves was less nerve wracking than this. But he manages it eventually, and soon enough he’s standing at the bedside, Guardian still miraculously undisturbed and Drifter’s stomach sinking.

They look-- vulnerable, is the only way to describe it, half-naked and asleep. Drifter looks away.

He takes stock of himself instead of thinking about it further. His wounds hurt...less. For all that he hasn’t been...resting...like he should have, yesterday’s nanopack did wonders, and his shoulder only smarts momentarily as he stretches his arm in front himself experimentally.

He doesn’t bother checking the worse arm. Something like that doesn’t heal overnight.

His clothes, meanwhile, are- well. He grimaces as he pulls down his skirt from where it’d bunched up practically to his chest. He already knows his leggings are unsalvageable. It takes a moment of looking, but he finds his cloak where it’d fallen off the bed and onto the floor, and is startled to find his helmet has somehow found its way to the other side of the room. He doesn’t remember ever taking it off. He doesn’t remember--

No, he can’t even lie to himself; he remembers everything else. He shoves his helmet back on and makes for the door.

He needs to leave. Before Guardian wakes up, before they can interrogate him, before they can make assumptions while Drifter is there to suffer the inevitable wrongness of them; there is only so much that could ever be salvaged in a situation like this, and the window for doing so grows smaller and smaller even as Drifter stands frozen, gritting his teeth in the dimly lit hallway to the exit.

But that’s too much of a lie for him to believe, either. He doesn’t need to leave.

He just _wants_ to.

Running is what he knows. To; away; he has fought towards and escaped from many things, all of them problems and very few resulting in anything like a solution, which probably goes without saying. He wants to go. It would be _easy_ to walk out the door, to leave this behind him in more ways than one, to escape the embarrassment and hope that if he ever crosses paths with Guardian again they would be willing to keep it in the past. Surely they could take a hint. Drifter has little doubt they would.

But... that isn’t fair.

This is on him, Drifter knows. He let pure instinct get the better of him -- barely even fought it in the first place -- and Guardian was the one unfortunate enough to get swept up in it all. He owes them. Whether an explanation, or an apology, or- something else, he doesn’t know. Probably both. Definitely both. Drifter pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

_Why_ didn’t he try harder to fight it.

There are too many implications there. Strings of thought and intention all wrapped up into a giant squirming mess more intimidating to untangle than their bodies had been. 

...Maybe it doesn’t really matter if he wants to leave, or needs to. 

Not as long as he just comes back?

Easy enough.

******

It’d been midday when Drifter had ventured up north. He’d had no idea how many hours had passed when he first woke up in Guardian’s house, and even less for the last; there were no windows in the building, and Drifter’s internal clock isn’t nearly good enough to make a guess. Stepping out of the house and into the small yard, he preemptively shields his face from the sun only to find the hazy night sky waiting for him instead. 

He spends a few long seconds fighting through the disorientation -- exhausted and aching, he feels like an entire day should have passed, not just barely half of one. He shakes his head.

The sun must’ve set only a short while ago, if the amount of townspeople loitering outside enjoying conversation and the evening air are anything to go by. The sound of the voices make him suddenly aware of his current state; he hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to clean up, and his cloak is still ripped and stained with blood in several places. At least now he can take steps to fix that. It only takes a moment of sorting through the to-do list in his head before he sets a course around the main plaza, sidestepping into a familiar little shop.

The air inside is thick with perfume and smoke, and his lungs are quick to react in protest. Coughing dryly, he pulls his mask further over his face to try and stifle the heady fragrance, shoulders hunching as he pushes further in. 

“Ah, my doorbell!” Comes a voice from the back. “ _G’gali,_ come in, I was beginning to miss that sound.”

Grimacing, Drifter weaves through the yards of fabric hanging in spools from the ceiling, eyes darting from color to color. It doesn’t take long to find the fabric he needs, even if the color is a little off -- at the very least, that part doesn’t matter. The service-bot floating above its dock on the wall makes its way over when he gestures with a hand. It makes quick work of cutting a line through the fabric, a muted flash of light the only warning before Drifter has a few yards of the stuff falling into his waiting hands. He nods his head at the bot in thanks and folds the cloth over his arms, making his way to the back.

“ _Lla allai,_ ” the shopkeep says as Drifter sets his purchase on the counter between them. “You look like shit.”

Drifter struggles for a moment between saying _Thanks,_ and _I know,_ and in the end, just says, “Yes.”

“None of your colorful fabric today?” They stretch out the black cloth with webbed fingers, looking it over with a critical eye before turning both on him. “May serve to brighten you up a little.”

“This is fine,” Drifter says. In a different scenario, he might’ve indulged their curiosity, but he’s impatient. “How much?”

“For you, _g’gali,_ a small fortune.” They grin at him toothlessly. “One gearbit will suffice.”

Drifter narrows his eyes. One gearbit is nothing; he’s paid more for smaller stretches of cheaper fabric in this same shop, and he knows from the look on the shopkeep’s face that they’ve hardly forgotten. But they don’t back down. And, well. Drifter is hardly one to turn his nose up at a deal.

“Don’t die,” they say, folding the cloth and placing it in a small bag before Drifter can protest, “or I’ll be out of business.”

“Burn much more incense and you’ll kill me yourself,” he says. They croak out a laugh.

Purchase made, he ducks back out into the square and over to the apothecarian’s shop for a proper salve, along with something for the pain radiating from his arm, and it’s then that his stomach starts to complain. He’d hoped to put off finding something to eat for a little while longer, not having any time to waste, but he’s already unbalanced from his injuries; he can’t afford to be dizzy from hunger as well.

He tries not to look at the body of the dirk hanging on the hook behind the food stand as he orders something else, bile rising in his throat. It goes without saying that it’s the last thing he needs.

The town is full of niches to hide in as he takes a moment to stop and eat. He casts a considering glance at the bag of medicine on his arm before looking away. No, better to hold off on treating his wounds until he can handle them all at once. He finishes his food quickly, making sure his mask is secure before stepping out again.

He pauses by the entrance to the sword dojo as a small, familiar figure comes darting out. The child seems to be done with their lessons for the day, and he watches them run through the courtyard for a second before he turns back to the shop, the sounds of voices and nature becoming muffled as the door slides shut behind him. The ever-present underlying hum of the lift gutting the middle of the town stays. It makes his footsteps on the sparsely carpeted floor all the more pronounced, the Sword Master looking up from where she sets a sword in its stand. He ignores eyes of the drifter at the table settling on him before she goes back to toying with her bot.

“I need to rent a blade,” he starts. “Nothing fancy. Just until morning.”

The Sword Master doesn’t say anything. She just looks him over once, raising an eyebrow, and Drifter bites on a sigh.

“I dropped some gear, and I need to retrieve it. Should I take my money elsewhere?”

She snorts before turning towards a shelf against the wall. “Four gearbits for the night. Return it in one piece, you get half back.”

Reasonable. He watches as she glances over the lines of unactivated cylinders. “I’ll try not to lose it.”

“The risk is why you’re paying me four bits for cheap garbage, drifter,” she says, taking one of the cylinders in hand. “But it’ll do you well enough.”

“That’s...reassuring,” he says, “I--” and is promptly cut off as Sword Master tosses the cylinder in his direction. 

He raises an arm on reflex, but it’s the wrong arm, and he jerks it back down toward his side as a stab of pain lances through his shoulder and into his chest, hissing against the movement. The cylinder clatters to the floor, rolling to a stop against his foot.

“Was that necessary,” he grits.

“I knew something was off.” Sword Master crosses an arm over her chest, using it to prop up her other elbow and rub her face with a hand. “You idiot.”

Drifter’s body stiffens, and his tone quickly follows. “Excuse me?”

“Is that your sword arm?” she says, gesturing to the one cradled awkwardly over his torso, “Are you seriously going out there at _night_ when you can’t even raise your _sword arm?_ ”

He teeters, for a moment, between being angry and just plain bewildered, and in the end settles on an unholy mix of the two. “I’m proficient with both,” he says, and then, slowly, “and it’s hardly any of your business.”

“You make it my business when you wander into my dojo asking me to lend you any old _cheap garbage_ sword, injured and about to do something dangerous!” She runs a hand through her fur and then turns away from him, back to the shelf stocked with inactive weapons.

Drifter tries to come up with a reason for her to be acting this way and comes up empty. They’ve trained a few times, when Drifter could afford her lessons, but they’ve hardly talked outside of those instances, and he didn’t think he’d given her a reason to believe him so unreliable as to die before he could return the sword in the morning. And she’d keep the extra gearbits if he didn’t anyway, he thought. Is she afraid he’ll _bleed_ on it?

“...It’s hardly dangerous,” he argues. “I told you I’m recovering some gear, and that’s what I’m doing.” He pauses. “And I’m not an idiot.”

She narrows her eyes at him over her shoulder. “No. You’re just stubborn. Don’t think that’s not just as bad.” When she turns around, she thrusts another cylinder towards him, holding it out for him to take. “You could stand to ask for _help_ sometimes.”

He’s already paying her for assistance in the form of a borrowed weapon, isn’t he? He frowns at the cylinder in her hand before reaching to take it with the arm that isn’t so impaired. “What’s this?”

“A sword,” she says. “Same price. Leave the other one.”

He does.

The over-familiarity in her tone makes him itch, but he knows well enough when to stop talking lest he says something that hurts his own odds. It’s mostly spite that has him leaving the other sword case on the floor where it fell instead of handing it back to her. He’s not sure he’d be able to reach down for it without making it more obvious that he’s injured anyway, and after that conversation, he’s not exactly eager to make her think she’s proved her point.

Because she hasn’t.

******

The sword that unsheathes from the case is a muted orange, and immediately he can feel the difference in how it’s weighted, swinging it experimentally when he reaches the northern dregs. It’s slightly shorter than he’s used to. He’ll have to compensate for the difference in reach as best he can without his pistol, but the blade’s composition doesn’t waver or static when he swings too hard, and the overall quality doesn’t seem too far off from his own, even if it lacks the various attunements Drifter’s made to it over the years. The glow that’s normally almost unnoticeable in daylight becomes a punctuation in the darkness, but Drifter opts to keep it under his cloak instead of putting it away entirely.

He makes his way up a good part of the mountain unaccosted, the occasional sound of birds calling to each other in the trees accompanying him as he goes. Aside from a nest of spiders, quickly dealt with and sliced to bits, it’s quiet. Drifter tries not to let that get to him.

He almost misses it. He probably would have, if it weren’t for the faint smell still hanging in the air; blood and rot, just barely distinguishable from the mountain’s general profile. But it’s enough to get him to stop in his tracks when he realizes what’s caught his attention, and he slows his already careful pace to a crawl, moving sideways through the brush. Yes, this place is familiar -- he recognizes this path now. 

The snow crunching under his boots turns into hard dirt sheltered by a high wall he thinks he actually hates. His eyes sweep over the scene, and he’s not surprised to only find two of the bodies that had been there when he’d stumbled away. Other animals would have found them easy meals; the two still left have already been heavily picked over as it is. He takes petty satisfaction at the sight.

Which definitely balances out the queasiness building in his stomach. For sure.

His sword is, miraculously, untouched. Inactive and dull, it must’ve not been interesting enough to be carried off by any of the wildlife, because its case lies exactly where he dropped it in the attack. It’s a relief to be able to tuck the borrowed sword away and pick up _his,_ fingers lining up with familiar scratches and grooves. He lets the feeling ground him.

His pistol is less easy to find. He spends far too long combing the brush for it. Undoubtedly it’d be more reasonable to leave the damn thing for a lost cause and simply buy a new one, but it’s _his_ gun, he _found_ it. 

He finds it again. The casing sports several new scratches in the form of teeth marks, but he’s pleased to find the damage is purely cosmetic, which suits him just fine.

Tucking the gun back into its holster, the darkness prickling at the back of his neck, tired, cold, angry, Drifter comes to understand with a sudden ferocity that he wants to be anywhere but here. That in and of itself isn’t unusual. It’s the thought that follows that gives him pause.

He wants to be back at Guardian’s house.

Back with Guardian?

Hm.

There’s a moment of anger at himself; of course, someone shows him any sort of physical attention and he wants to go running back to them for comfort at even the slightest bit of distress. What right does he even have to want that? How many times had Guardian stopped, paused, hesitated, even if they’d agreed at first? What other, more obvious cues might Drifter have missed while he was focusing on himself?

He remembers them- initiating, maybe, but he’s not sure he trusts himself to correctly remember whether it’d looked like they were actually enjoying themself or not. Drifter was already sure he’d overstepped some boundaries, but it’s only now that he’s really starting to wonder what lines he _didn’t_ cross.

Drifter tells himself this and another part of him says back, _what if?_

For a heartbeat, Drifter imagines. Places his anxieties aside and trusts that Guardian would have been more insistent if they really had wanted to stop. Imagines what it would mean if, as rocky as it’d been at the start, they’d wanted it too, and Drifter realizes that he _hopes._ Hopes, desperately, that his thoughts are more than just selfish imaginings. Hopes there might be a chance they wouldn’t mind being a person for him to go back to.

But- no. Before anything else, he needs to apologize. Needs to know the true scope of what he’s apologizing for. After that, he’ll...

Figure it out once he gets there.

He’d originally planned to make another stop on the way back to town, somewhere private and secure to really fix up his bad arm, maybe patch up his clothes. Unfortunately, his patience has run dry. The darkness has only deepened during the excursion, anyway, and he’s sure his injuries can wait.

Also, he’s _really_ fucking cold.

******

He takes a moment to adjust after the warp back to central, fingers tingling as they warm and the slight hum of the pad singing through the soles of his boots. There’s no one there to see him hesitate. Drifter looks up at the house, boxed in on every side by other abandoned and dilapidated structures, realizing he’s never been in the uppermost levels of the building in front of him. Are they livable? Maybe they too have fallen into disrepair, impassable and obsolete. Has Drifter just never noticed any stairs leading up?

Will Guardian still be there when he walks in?

While he’d been busy deciding whether to stay or go himself, he’d forgotten that there was never any guarantee that Guardian would wake up to find the house empty and decide to stick around. Drifter has to resist the urge to kick himself. 

There’s no use worrying about it further. Either they’ll be there, or they won’t. Drifter grits his teeth and steps towards the door.

(He doesn’t think about the times before this. The many instances he’d come back to find the house empty. It was Guardian’s house, but Drifter had often found himself wondering if they ever used it as anything more than storage, the bed always perfectly made, untouched.)

The bed is not made this time.

Guardian is sitting on the edge of it, and they don’t look when Drifter walks in.

The way they’re staring at their cloak in their hands would best be described as listless, and Drifter is only distracted from their distant expression by the feeling of his heart doing something worrisome. He stands there for several seconds, silent, unmoving. When Guardian finally turns their gaze over, Drifter can see the exact second they register he’s here.

“I- got supplies,” Drifter blurts, and then he wants to kick himself all over again.

Sword Master was right. He is an idiot.

Guardian looks down at the bag on Drifter’s arm. “Oh,” they say. And then they don’t say anything else. Neither of them do, for several long seconds. Drifter can only imagine what’s going on in Guardian’s mind.

He sighs. It’s short, bitten in half and caught between his teeth as he grits them under his mask. The sound of his cloak ruffling as he walks over to the chair still by the bedside is almost too loud in the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way Guardian nearly leans back as he sits, even if they correct themself.

But they can’t quite hide the way they balk as he tugs his helmet off and places it aside.

It’s only fair, he almost says. Guardian is still unhelmed. Looking at each other now, largely bare-faced -- Drifter remembers to tug his mask down, he wants to do this _right_ \-- isn’t as uncomfortable as he’d thought it’d be. 

Guardian’s lips are bruised. Drifter is trying very hard not to be distracted by this fact.

He starts to say something. Only to pause, re-evaluate, and try again, but- where does he start? What does he say? Maybe he should have thought this out a little more. Guardian is staring at him, though. He clears his throat once.

“I was...cornered by dirks,” he starts. “Up north.”

Guardian blinks. And then their eyebrows furrow. “I thought those looked like dirk bites,” they mutter.

They’re not getting it. “I was _cornered,_ ” he repeats, placing emphasis where he can because he really doesn’t want to spell this out, though he will if he has to, “by _dirks._ ” He stares at them intently. Please get what he means.

He can tell they understand they’re missing something, by the way they blink and press their lips into a thin line, looking down. He watches as their gears turn. It’s no easier to tell time now, in this building with no windows, and Drifter finds he doesn’t care to try and measure how much has passed when Guardian suddenly stills, eyes pressed closed.

“...Oh.”

There’s really nothing else to say to that, is there. The revelation in their voice is terrible.

Except Guardian, apparently, does have something else. “I’m sorry,” they say, which, what? “If you- if what happened today made you uncomfortable, I understand.”

Drifter only stares. And then, “You’re sorry.”

Guardian looks up at him. “Yes.” Their words are footsteps over broken glass; careful, finding safe ground between the shards. “I wasn’t... I didn’t suspect. I thought--” They stumble a little, tripping over words neither of them really want to hear said out loud. ‘-- _that_ was just- urban legend. I should have known better.”

This was not how Drifter was expecting this conversation to go. He’d hardly thought up a script, but still.

“So, yes,” Guardian finishes. “I am sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry,” Drifter repeats. He feels like a broken record. That, however, is easily fixed, and he presses on before the look on Guardian’s face can become any harder to bear. “You were-” _perfect,_ his own voice supplies for him, broken and fervent. Heat rises to his face at the memory before wrenching his train of thought back on track. “You were fine. _I_ owe you an apology. That wasn’t fair to you. _Far_ from it.”

That makes Guardian sit up a little straighter. They finally set their cloak aside; Drifter is distantly grateful that they’d managed to get mostly dressed before he returned. “Whatever fault there is belongs more to me than it does to you, I think!” The words are thick with something like anger or distress or both, and Drifter blinks, taken aback - they’re upset, he realizes. The way they rake a hand through their hair only confirms it. “Your reasoning was...compromised, to say the least of it. You were-- _are_ injured, I shouldn’t have let it get to the point where it was necessary for me to ask if it was alright to continue. Even if I wasn’t aware that your ability to give knowledgeable consent was impaired, it was still obvious something was off, and it’s not--”

“Guardian,” Drifter says, cutting them off. Their mouth works as they sit on the words they must have been about to say, and Drifter finds himself distracted once again by the small cuts set into their lips, knowing he put them there. He takes a breath. “I would rather have taken care of it alone than with anyone else.” He pauses. Sees the way Guardian’s face blanks as they try to parse the jumbled phrasing. “Rather than with anyone other than you,” he corrects. “I have realized.”

He waits a moment for them to say something. They don’t.

Guardian massages their wrist. The way one does when it’s sore, and Drifter doesn’t have to wonder why that might be the case. He almost misses his mask for how it would’ve concealed at least some of the heat coloring his face, but the way Guardian pauses and then sits on their hand when they realize is almost funny. 

Or just awkward, mostly.

But their silence is an opportunity to say what he came here to, and he’s not about to miss it when they look at him with the beginning of a question written into the hopeful lines of their face.

“And I...understand,” Drifter continues, through grit teeth despite himself, “that I was. Not really, taking no. For an answer,” only to stop when Guardian holds up a hand.

“Absolutely not,” they protest. “Given the circumstances, you were being very considerate, I think. And...” They duck their head a little, then, though they abort the gesture before it can really hide the slight flush to their face. “There wasn’t really a ‘no’ happening, regardless.”

They sound sincere. Drifter _wants_ to believe it. His doubt lingers, though, and he grips the edge of the chair. “I would want to know,” Drifter presses. “If I wasn’t listening. Even if you didn’t _say_ it, and I wasn’t paying attention--”

“No,” Guardian interrupts, and then backtracks. “I was- surprised,” they admit. And then they really do look away, voice turning mumbly. “But I would say there was a lot of...enthusiasm on my part, once-- um. Once I got warmed up?”

...Oh.

That makes him feel- something. Better. Warm in a way that for once has nothing to do with his body betraying him again, though he’s careful still when he chooses his words, in case they come out wrong. It’d be his luck to get this far only to misstep here.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” he says, slowly, “with today. If I regret anything, it would be not listening to you.”

The lines of Guardian’s face ease. Soften, until something almost delicate is all that’s left there. “Nothing else?”

Drifter could say “no”. It’s true; he doesn’t regret what happened aside from the circumstances that led them here. But the ease with which the simple word could be misunderstood keeps him from saying anything at all because he doesn’t really have anything else to offer, left staring at the one person he’s suddenly found himself so endeared to with no real explanation as to how, or why. It just happened. He’s not sure what to do.

Guardian says nothing. Waits, patiently, their expression betraying no judgement. Somehow, that’s enough.

“When I left,” he says, “today. I considered the possibility that we might never speak again.” He’s trying very hard not to think too much about the words he’s saying, in case he decides to try and take them back. “And that- upset me, more than I thought it would. And when I considered us going on to pretend today never happened, I realized I didn’t want that, either. I wanted to be here. With you,” he says, mouth dry. He wets his lips, unable to ignore Guardian’s eyes on him. “...If I regret anything else, it’s that I didn’t realize this sooner.”

Movement. Drifter doesn’t register that Guardian is shifting closer until they offer their hand, palm up. A suggestion. Their gaze, when Drifter finally dares to meet it, is incredibly kind.

“Then I’m glad the feeling is mutual,” they say, voice incredibly soft.

Heart thudding worryingly in his chest, Drifter places a hand on top of theirs. They squeeze his hand and it’s satisfyingly solid, Drifter suddenly giddy with the knowledge that he’s allowed to squeeze back, he thinks, or maybe he’s just light-headed in general. 

They just had mind-blowing, pheromone-fueled sex and Drifter’s having palpitations over holding a hand. He almost laughs.

“This is okay?” Guardian asks. Drifter does laugh, then, and Guardian joins him after a moment, both of them leaning a little closer together.

“Yes,” Drifter agrees. His voice is light, the lack of tension like a physical weight lifted off his shoulders. Maybe Guardian’s, too, from the way slump in something like relief. And then, answering their question. “We’re okay.”

He should probably move. Get up to do something about his injuries. But this is ours, he thinks. Our moment to keep, wherever it leads. 

He takes careful note of their smile. The warmth of their hand and how they hold it like they wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world. And Drifter can’t help but agree.


End file.
